THE STORIES OF LOVE AND DREAMS THAT PEPPER MY PURSUIT OF ME

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The boy I like. The Boy that occupies my thoughts asked a few weeks ago if I was a “high functioning robot” — the meaning initially eluded me. It wasn’t until I relayed the comment to a girl friend that it became clear. Her response, “you have an ability to compartmentalize everything.” While I refrained from paining her with the very female analysis of a boy’s words, the analysis was evident. For the primary difference between us and robots are emotion, right?

So emotionless me sits here, full of emotion. He’s traveling. No words in days. I see him on emails. I see him online. I asked a simple question, “when do you return?” to no response.

And I hurt. And he hasn’t the slightest clue.

The idiocy of us has pained me from the beginning. The same story lives within these pages. Future partners, not. But we pursue and decide to dance.

It started as the beautiful pain of vulnerability. The typical tango of misperceptions ensued. Accusations that made my emotions run and my mind stay. He is after all a perfect summer cocktail, a complex concoction and a down ecstasy pillow in one. Refreshing, alien brilliant, and mind-blowing.

xx emotionless me

The difference is not in lack of emotion, but my own perception of what one deserves to know. I believe there is no greater gift than giving your emotions and this I hold close. A boy who occupies thoughts does not deserve this. And this is how I operate and seemingly float.

The other side of the coin is one of bravery. A beautiful poem I read tonight about vulnerability. “there is nothing, nothing so brave, as to allow yourself complete vulnerability”- tyler knott gregson So my strength is also my failing . . . it always is.

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My friends comment how composed I am, how I don’t show emotion. I provide updates, my understanding of his actions, I show my frustration and, my clinging heart is exposed. But what they don’t see, what they don’t expect, is the moments here. At home. The minutes that have turned into hours that collectively may now add up to a day. The moments where I am paralyzed as the energies of my body are consumed by breaking my heart.

I hold my head in my hands, close my eyes, and search for an answer on what to feel. Trapped between words of love and actions that contradict, I straddle allowing the anger to consume me and move on, or the alternative, letting go with love. In one scenario, I fuck, I date, I write a story that has no second act. In the other, I embrace my individuality, cherish my friends, and remain emotionally and physically unavailable. Drawn to him. Ultimately. Remaining open to a future us.

I look at my phone. I acknowledge the game at play and my lack of understanding his motives as of yet. However, as each minute passes, as my eyes search around my room as if the answers could be found here, I embrace the anger for it is the only escape.

I learned a shit ton this evening. I read his message at a marketing event this evening.

My lungs longed to collapse. Minutes that were languid and onerous turned into painful seconds; a thousand needles penetrated my skin as each one passed.

1, a thousand needles

2, a thousand needles

3, a thousand needles

4, a thousand needles

I doubted if I could survive five more minutes. Undeniably, thirty minutes would consume me.

I could imagine how one’s mind could become psychotic.

The message was not dramatic. Not mean. It was simple and perhaps, my above reaction unwarranted. However, the danger was in its subtlety. I knew. And I was right.

“I am a really bad partner until I finish my divorce. I truly apologize for that.

We need to sit down and talk. I really, really appreciated your effort to have a light and joyful relationship on Sunday and yesterday. I know it was a big effort for you and I really enjoyed it. However, I know you have feelings and I have not been dealing with them and we need to understand if what I can do at the moment makes you happy.”

Let’s stop here and just talk in person! I like you too much to risk another misunderstanding.”

Like? What happened to all of the “loves” . . the “love you’s” I never trusted?

I pressed for a phone call. He refused to speak about the above. “I don’t like speaking on the phone. Let’s speak in person.” I prodded. He’s away through next week and I refused to be left questioning, miserable, broken. Suspended in a relationship with someone who was already emotionally gone.

I’m not sure how I succeeded but I did. And this is what I learned:

My being open, light, and passionately sexual, ironically, made him realize how much of an ass he is. Giving him what we wanted forced him to admit he could not do the same. His first admission to his not being loving.

Sunday was an amazing emotionally feat for me. I will expand in a separate post, but I have Esther Perel “Mating in Captivity” and my mother to thank. They allowed me to change my perspective and put aside the hurt, the longing for intimacy, connection, etc. We were that jealousy-inducing couple at Perry Street. The couple cab drivers hate. The evening was as passionate as when we first met, if not more.

I left. Refused to spend the night. He wrote that I was the guy, he the girl. I felt in control. Safe, happy, and open. Monday Night – repeat.

What was unexpected was his reaction. My actions changed him. My physical actions drew the parallel to the lack of commitment and emotional intimacy. I am not sure if this is in opposition to “Mating in Captivity” to which I so resonate . . but illuminating nonetheless.

To be continued . .

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Magnetic. So often I am turned to for dating advice and thought I’d share my past weekend here. We went to Soho to watch the Derby. I arrived late as my love affair with my yoga class on Saturdays is a high, an addiction, I am unwilling to sacrifice. So, when I was dating Mr. Hot Simple I was hit on everywhere I went, oddly with him nearby. I found it strange, but then I realized that with him, I always smiled. I was comfortable, myself. So, smile.

There was a man with haunting blue eyes and an accent that made me sigh. From Cape Town his energy was different from the men of New York, his wit unparalleled. The lounge allowed dogs and I concocted a plan that we should steal his friend’s. With a note of course. No reason to make someone’s heart palpitate. Of course, Sunday I receive a text: “Our plan of attack will need to be well orchestrated. Probably responsible for us to meet to discuss our strategy?” And one thing led to the next. And we went exploring for a discrete place to have drinks. 6 seats. And six hours of nonstop laughter. A cartoon like menu for the drink specials. We had a coloring contest. He won. His prize, me doing a handstand and scorpion pose from yoga. Of which I still owe him. Tonight we are doing dinner.

So point is, smile, laugh, have fun. Bring out the best in someone. Be truly interested in who they are. And what makes them tick.

x

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Letting go of something I never grabbed onto. He was handsome, his lust found me, engulfed me. The moments together were light. Happy. And I, physically awakened. I kept seeking. Where was he. So simple. An opposing mirror to my complexity. The best me was suffocating. But my inner dialogues kept pressing. Don’t throw someone away due to an unhappiness with myself. Seeking someone to challenge me, bring out the best in me, seemed as if it was a problem I wouldn’t have if I was together, whole. A problem best dealt with myself.

So with the new year, I communicated. Me, communicating. Imagine that. I felt that there must be someone more interesting underneath the fine specimen of a human being. I wanted more. Yes. But I said what. After all, he had fallen, supposedly. A light request to someone who wanted an us.

But tides change. And he felt defeated. The month to follow, I was dealt my own recipe. Games I say. Games he said he didn’t play. “Straightforward, I am.” Dense, I retorted. Nights of pain. Of hurt. Against a current of need. Something I rarely seek. This boy who “liked” me so failed to be the simplest of friends. Enough cuts.

So I tried. Multiple choice. A, B, or C. Your words don’t meet your actions. So either your feelings have changed or this sabotage will not be well received. A. we try and make this work. B. we enjoy each other casually or C. we part ways. Not C was the only answer I ever received. And the mention of defeat. Continued games. Continued stabs.

And me, somehow caring enough to communicate again. Imagine that. A request for him to tell me how he feels. A warning that my emotions were on their last leg (pinky toe rather) and that I have an uncanny ability to take my feelings and put them in boxes. Tied with a pretty bow. Of apathy. Of indifference. Emotional doom to never be reopen.

“I get it.” The three words I received. Tonight was worse. Another stab. And I told him, we’ve run our course. He says, “I don’t want to weigh on you.” And my innards screamed. On the mat at the gym. A diatribe of fuck you’s to a phone that died after his response.

A sign that a response is not due. But oh how I just want to say fuck you. Send him the definition of like, falling in love, and an us. I hate him so. and back to the resurfaced “I hate the words I love you.” the i love you, but.

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The episodic heart. The running dialogues in my mind, their words . . . they change. They vary from pain to understanding to my own admittance of fault.

That evening A stated, “love and drama go hand in hand.” I know the guest was a female. My intuition says she arrived, and most likely arrives most Thursdays (the one day I historically have not been here) and to her dismay, he rushed down, wouldn’t allow her up. Women are not stupid. I am sure she understood the reason. But, perhaps he lied. Said his parents were in town. They in truth come tomorrow.

He looked at me with eyes covered in a film of red. Whatever happened was not easy. He was destroyed. “Drama and love go hand in hand.” He proceeded to tell me I am not like my gender, and that i have things to learn about love. To watch ‘Valentine’s Day.’ The irony. I sat quiet, same half smile that I wore upon his arrival. I offered nothing. My insides in opposition, screamed with fury. I wondered how this was getting turned around on me. I imagined him now falling into a lustful, intimate, emotional relationship with whoever came below. I was wrong as he asked me to go away for Fourth of July . . . a trip like Memorial Day that had been preplanned and was now ripe for the taking.

I still have not confronted him. The few friends I’ve told, perplexed. My mind has traveled to so many places and often, feels too logical, too cold. I will explain my perspective later. But, the summarized version is our relationship lacked something weeks ago, that is the problem. The lack of sex, of intimacy, and the other females all go hand in hand. I will not fall and/or stay in a relationship without the first two, and the first two cannot exist with the last. So, if the relationship grows, if we remove our walls, then the rest is relevant. Until then the countries my mind will visit . . . and perhaps the other men I will let in.

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The buzzer rings unexpectedly. We had just arrived home. The doorman’s voice through the intercom echoes, “You have a guest here.” A replies hurriedly, “I’ll come down.”

As I unbutton my dress, laying the night to bed, I question who it was. I thought a dealer as A has an affinity for weed. Five minutes pass, then ten. I notice his phone on the island and perplexed as to what could be taking so long, I look for an answer. No texts, no missed calls. My fingers continue to scroll through a history, one that paralleled us . . .

What I discovered was more than one could ever fathom. Impossible. Not just a double-life, but multiple. A storied existence. The trashy thong I found in the bed long ago was reduced to child’s play. Alexandra, Erica, Celine, Julia, Anne Marie, Ila– too many to count. Female emotions splayed via texts.

My heart palpitated as I expected him to arrive any moment. My desire to peek was countered by a fear of being discovered; ironic, as it was he who had been uncovered.

Time passed without his return. I took notes in an attempt to put it all together. Perplexed since I had been there almost every night for the past month. When, where, how? Many of the texts were waning from previous encounters that seemed once regular.

Ila “You are the only man I love. If only we could be together. Why don’t you respond.”

Julia “You are mia.” “Where are you?” “We weren’t safe last night. I am worried . . . ” “FIne. I get it. You have a girlfriend now.” (I question as to where this came from as I still withhold any terms)